The Shadow of the Cathedral | Page 6

called "de la Torre,"[1] on the other side
that called "de los Escribanos,"[2] for by it entered in former days the
guardians of public religion to take the oath to fulfil the duties of their
office. Both were enriched with stone statues on the jambs, and by
wreaths of little figures, foliage, and emblems that unrolled themselves
among the mouldings till they met at the summit of the arch.
[Footnote 1: Of the Tower.]
[Footnote 2: Of the Scribes.]
Above these three doorways with their exuberant Gothic rose the
second storey of Greco-Romano and almost modern construction,

causing Gabriel the same annoyance as would a discordant trumpet
interrupting a symphony. Jesus and the twelve apostles, all life size,
seated at the table, each under his own canopied niche, could be seen
above the central porch, shut in by the two tower-like buttresses which
divided the front into three parts. Beyond, two rows of arcades of
inferior design, belonging to the Italian palace, extended as far as those
under which Gabriel had so often played as a child when living in the
house of the bell-ringer.
The riches of the Church, thought Luna, were a misfortune for art; in a
poorer church the uniformity of the ancient front would have been
preserved. But, then, the Archbishop of Toledo had eleven millions of
yearly revenue, and the Chapter as many more; they did not know what
to do with their money, so started works and made reconstructions, and
the decadent art produced monstrosities like that one of the Last
Supper.
Above, again, rose the third storey, two great arches that lighted the
large rose of the central nave. The whole was crowned by a balustrade
of open-worked stone following the sinuosities of the frontage, between
the two salient masses that guarded it, the tower and the Musarabé
chapel.
Gabriel ceased his contemplation, seeing that he was no longer alone in
front of the church. It was nearly daylight, and several women with
bowed heads, their mantillas falling over their eyes, were passing in
front of the iron grating. The crutches of a lame man rang out on the
fine tiles of the pavement, and, out beyond the tower, under the great
arch of communication between the archbishop's palace and the
Cathedral, the beggars were gathering in order to take up their
accustomed positions at the cloister door. The faithful and "God's
creatures" [1] knew one another; every morning they were the first
occupants of the church, and this daily meeting had established a kind
of fraternity, and with much coughing and hoarseness they all lamented
the cold of the morning and the lateness of the bell-ringer in coming
down to open the doors.
[Footnote 1: Pordioseres.]

A door opened beyond the archbishop's arch, that of the tower and the
staircase leading to the dwellings in the upper cloister. A man crossed
the street rattling a huge bunch of keys, and, followed by the usual
morning assemblage, he proceeded to open the door of the lower
cloister, narrow and pointed as an arrow-head. Gabriel recognised him,
it was Mariano, the bell-ringer. To avoid being noticed he remained
motionless in the Piazza, allowing those to pass first through the Puerta
del Mollete,[1] who seemed so anxious to hurry into the Metropolitan
church, lest their usual places should be stolen from them and occupied
by others.
[Footnote 1: Door of the rolls, or loaves.]
At last he decided to follow them, and slowly descended the same steps
leading down into the cloister, for the Cathedral, being built in a hollow,
is much lower than the adjacent streets.
Everything appeared the same. There on the walls were the great
frescoes of Bayan y Maella, representing the works and great deeds of
Saint Eulogio, his preaching in the land of the Moors, and the cruelties
of the infidels, who, with big turbans and enormous whiskers, were
beating the saint. In the interior of the Mollete doorway was
represented the horrible martyrdom of the Child de la Guardia; that
legend born at the same time in so many Catholic towns during the heat
of anti-Semitic hatred, the sacrifice of the Christian child, stolen from
his home by Jews of grim countenance, who crucified him in order to
tear out his heart and drink his blood.
The damp was rapidly effacing this romantic fresco, that filled the sides
of the archway like the frontispiece of a book, causing it to scale off;
but Gabriel could still see the horrible face of the judge standing at the
foot of the cross, and the ferocious gesture of the man, who with his
knife in his mouth, was bending forward to tear out the heart of the
little martyr; theatrical figures, but they had often disturbed his childish
dreams.
The garden in the midst